


Secret Santa

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Clint Feels, Established Relationship, First Christmas Together, M/M, One Shot, Post-Movie(s), Rating for Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has a secret Christmas project. Phil finds out about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide. The prompt is at the bottom of the story for the benefit of those who do not wish to be spoiled.
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toy, not mine. I'm just playing.
> 
> Thanks to [Maquis Leader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader) for all her cheerleading and help.

 

There was no one in the hallway when the elevator door opened, so Phil allowed his shoulders to slump just the tiniest bit as he trudged toward his suite in Stark Tower. His day had begun early and had stretched long and tedious, and he was beyond glad that it was over.

He went through the various security protocols, nodding with a tired smile and a quiet "Thanks," as JARVIS unlocked the front door and greeted him with the usual, "Welcome home, Agent Coulson."

Clint was curled in the corner of the couch, surrounded by what seemed like a hundred loose sheets of paper. There was a manila folder open on the coffee table before him, and a legal pad and pen on the couch beside him. He smiled happily at Phil and stood to began quickly clearing things away as Phil walked further into the room.

Stacking everything in a neat little pile on the coffee table, Clint placed the legal pad on top, turned over so that only the cardboard backing was visible. Phil was too weary to be more than slightly curious. He set his briefcase on the dining room table and moved gratefully into Clint's arms.

He tasted of coffee and chocolate and _home_ , and Phil sighed contentedly into his kiss, his arms winding around the younger man's waist, hands sliding over the taut muscles of Clint's back. The archer's magnificent arms tightened around him as Phil lowered his head to Clint's shoulder and buried his face in his neck, blissfully breathing in the scent of soap and cologne and _Clint_.

Just coming home to this was exactly the pick-me-up Phil needed, one he still wasn't quite used to, one he was stupidly grateful for every damn day.

"Long day?" Clint murmured in his ear, sending the faintest of shivers down his spine. Phil felt Clint's lips curve against his skin, and he nodded and then did his best to banish the memories of meeting after meeting after meeting -- damage control and revisions to the security protocols and cost-benefit analysis of the rebuilding efforts and recruitment strategizing and every damn thing Nick didn't feel like dealing with.

"What are you working on here?" he asked, frowning slightly as Clint stiffened infinitesimally and then instantly relaxed. The vague hum and shrug he gave Phil was evasive but not guilty, so Phil decided to let it go. Clint would tell him when he was ready, if he felt it was necessary.

Clint pulled back a little, keeping his arms around Phil's waist, and now he did look guilty.

"I'm sorry, I got caught up and didn't get anything started for dinner."

Phil laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I don't expect to get home and have dinner waiting for me on the table after a long, hard day of breadwinning, just because sometimes you get home before I do," he grinned, and then he looked seriously into Clint's eyes. "That doesn't mean I don't appreciate it more than I can say when you do take the time, but I don't want you to ever think that I _expect_ it. That's not -- "

"I know," Clint interrupted. "I know you don't."

The _That's why I like to_ was clear in his eyes, though he would never say it, and Phil closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Clint's as love and gratitude surged through him again. This feeling of _rightness_ had nearly been torn away from them before they'd even had it, and he would never stop being thankful that they'd been given a chance at it after all.

They just stood for a second, basking in each other's steady presence, until Phil pulled back a little so he could glance at his watch. It was nearly 7:30. By the time he showered and dressed, the rest of the team would be long finished with dinner.

"We can go down in a little while and see what leftovers there are -- " he started, stopping when Clint made a face. "Order in, then?"

"Thai Garden?" Clint asked hopefully, and Phil smiled and leaned in for another quick kiss.

"Sounds good. Order me the usual, please. I'm going to take a shower."

"Need someone to wash your back?" Clint asked, arching his eyebrow as he grinned wickedly.

Desire stirred restlessly in Phil's belly despite his fatigue. "Order up dinner -- arrange for delivery in an hour -- and then report for duty, Agent."

Heat flared in Clint's eyes, darkening them as his hands tightened on Phil's hips. He raised one hand to lazily salute before brushing his fingers through Phil's hair. "Yes, sir."

It took a concerted effort on Phil's part to break away and head for the shower.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Dinner was quiet and intimate as they stole bites off each other's plates and talked possible weekend plans and the books they were reading and what movies were opening, focusing on inconsequential matters that kept SHIELD and the Avengers out of their private space as much as possible. When the dishes were cleared and the leftovers were put away, Phil settled onto the couch with a glass of wine and some mindless television to clear his head.

Clint rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to the top of Phil's head before disappearing into the rarely used room they'd set up as his office. Phil frowned after him for a moment and then shrugged and turned back to his show. It was unusual for them not to spend the evening together when they were both home, but not unheard of.

He shifted on the couch, pausing when he heard the crinkle of paper. Reaching between the cushion and the arm, he pulled out a folded sheet, now slightly wrinkled. He unfolded it and scanned the contents, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

There were lightly penciled lines running across the page to aid the obviously young author in writing straight, and the handwriting was crude and uneven, some letters backward, many words misspelled. It was clearly written by a child -- a very young child.

> _Deer Santa_
> 
> _I been reely reely good this year, as good as I can. Pleeze wuld you bring me a momma and a daddy and mabye a baby sistur if you can? I no thats alot to ask for, so if you cant its ok. If thats too much culd I pleeze have a dolly? Mabye one with dark hair like mine?_
> 
> _Thank you Santa. I love you._
> 
> _Katie Lynn Miles_

Phil was still staring dumbfounded at the letter when Clint padded quietly back into the room and stopped abruptly at the sight. One hand went to the back of his neck to rub nervously, the other clenching into a fist at his side.

"I know this isn't mine, so I'm pretty sure it's yours," Phil said evenly, offering the letter to him.

Clint hesitated only briefly before moving closer and taking it from Phil's hand. He folded it without reading it, his arms dropping to his sides, his shoulders hunched as he stared at the floor.

"Clint?"

The younger man blew out a sigh and moved toward the armchair by Phil, dropping carelessly into it. He sprawled out, seemingly boneless and unconcerned, but Phil could see the tension in his neck, the tightness around his eyes.

The silence stretched out, broken only by the low mutter of voices from the television, until Phil reached for the remote and muted it, never taking his eyes off Clint.

Without a word, Clint suddenly shoved himself up and stalked out of the room. Phil blinked in surprise, staring after him, but before he could make up his mind whether or not to follow him, Clint was back, manila folder in one hand. He silently handed it to Phil and then sat rigidly at the other end of the couch.

Phil opened it carefully, moving quickly to catch the papers that cascaded out. They were all similar to the letter he'd found in the couch, written by children of varying ages and writing ability. Words jumped out at him -- bike, Mom, Avengers, good, PlayStation, brother, basketball, house, Iron Man, Daddy, iPod, family, home, parents.

"They all ask for a family," Clint said softly. "It's the one thing I can't give them."

Phil slowly shook his head in confusion, still shuffling through the letters. "Who... Clint, who are these kids?"

Clint rested his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. "They... I... When -- " He broke off with a frustrated sigh, rubbing one hand brusquely over his face.

Phil tamped down his instinctive urge to pull Clint close, to stroke and soothe until he was calm. He was beginning to get an inkling of what was going on here, and even if he was wrong, he knew there was nothing Clint could say that would push him away, but he had no idea what _Clint_ was thinking at the moment, and Phil knew that reaching for him might only make things worse. Instead, he tucked all the letters back into the folder and set it on the coffee table, keeping the expanse of couch between them empty and navigable.

"I never had a steady paycheck before I came to SHIELD," Clint said suddenly. "But I guess you knew that."

Phil nodded, because he did know. SHIELD was very thorough when it came to intel gathering -- there was very little about Clint Barton's life before SHIELD that wasn't in the file Phil had carried with him and studied daily while working to bring Clint to the fold.

"All of a sudden I had a roof over my head, and access to cheap food that was good -- sometimes even free food, and as much as I wanted -- and a clothing allowance, and nothing to buy with all this money that kept coming in every month. It just sat there.

"And then -- you remember, four years ago we had that op in Nebraska, that crazy-ass militia leader with ties to like, everybody on SHIELD'S bad list?"

Phil had to think for a moment before the op in question came back to him -- it was one of the rare ones that went smoothly, and the ones that went smoothly tended not to stick with him as much as those that went pear-shaped or ended up with somebody in medical or the local jail.

"We spent a bunch of nights sitting on our asses in the hotel waiting for permission to proceed with the op," Clint reminded him, and Phil nodded again.

"I remember now."

"Well, one night there was a story on the local news about this orphanage over near Le Mars, it's in Iowa -- not the one I -- that one's clear on the other side of the state," Clint interrupted himself to clarify uneasily before Phil could ask. "Anyway, some asshole broke into the office and took what few gifts and donations they'd managed to gather for the kids' Christmas. Typical sob story they always have in the middle of the broadcast, you know, the kind where Mr. and Mrs. White Picket Fence can look up and go, 'Oh, that's so sad, those poor kids,' and then go right back to eating their dinner. But I thought of all that money just sitting in my account. So I just... sent them some. With a note that said it was to replace what got taken."

Phil sat very still to keep from hauling Clint into his lap and kissing him senseless. This man had admitted to theft, assault, various other felonies, and a history of abuse and neglect only under very, very skilled interrogation, and yet, Phil had never seen him as uneasy as he was now, talking about four Christmases of selfless generosity.

"We got busy and then left before I could make sure they got it, but I checked the website of the channel that ran the original story once we got back here, and they had another little video, a second interview with the lady who runs the place, and she was so... she was -- " Clint swallowed harshly and cleared his throat. "She, uh, she said that she understood if whoever did it wanted to stay unknown, but that the kids wrote thank you notes, and she asked for an address. So... I got a P.O. box, and I sent her the address. And then..." He trailed off and glanced at Phil, his beautiful eyes bright, and then he quickly looked away. "You, um... you want to see them?"

There was such hopeful uncertainty in his voice, and Phil had to close his eyes for a moment and take a steadying breath before he answered. He waited until Clint glanced up again, and then he looked directly into Clint's eyes and nodded. "I would love to see them."

The corner of Clint's lip curled in a relieved little grin as he stood and left the room, and Phil blew out another shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Just when he thought he knew everything about this remarkable man he was sharing his life with, something else happened to completely blow his mind.

Clint came back in, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and a large, beautifully inlaid wooden box in his hands. Phil had noticed it among Clint's things and had been curious about what it held, but he'd figured Clint would share its contents with him if and when he wanted to. And now, it appeared, he wanted to.

Clint sat back down on the couch -- next to Phil now, his body touching Phil's from shoulder to thigh, and Phil bit back a relieved smile. Setting the laptop bag down on the floor beside his leg, Clint rested the box on his lap and unlatched it. He lifted out envelopes and flash drives until he reached the bottom, pulling out the thinnest envelope.

He opened it carefully, spilling a dozen or so short notes into his hand before handing them to Phil. The writing was similar to what Phil had seen in the first letter, all of them thanking Santa for various things -- a doll, a book, a football, a chemistry set, basic toys purchased by the orphanage's owners with the money Clint had provided.

Clint reached back into the box and pulled out a single page that had clearly been handled often, repeatedly unfolded and refolded. It was worn nearly clean through along the creases, and Phil took it from him carefully, gentle with the fragile paper.

"This came too, that first year," Clint said. "I had it in my wallet for a while, but... I didn't want to lose it."

The letter was brief, written in an obviously feminine hand.

> _Dear Santa,_
> 
> _You cannot know how much your generous gift means to us, whoever you are. We try our hardest to give these children everything we can, and it broke our hearts to know that someone could so callously steal from those who already have so little, and at a time of year when our thoughts should be with those who most need our help._
> 
> _Your unbelievable kindness and charity in this season of giving has renewed our faith in the goodness of our fellow man, and we thank you with all of our hearts._
> 
> _God bless you, Santa._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Beth and Michael Olsen  
>  Le Mars Home for Displaced Children_

Phil handed it back to Clint, carefully ignoring how the younger man's hand trembled slightly as he took it and gently returned it to the box.

Clint shrugged, an easy and dismissive move that belied the emotion that Phil could clearly see coursing through him.

"I... liked it," Clint said after a moment, his gaze on his hands. "Helping."

Moving slowly, Phil wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

"So, the year after that, I thought about it and I realized they might not ask for help again, but that I could offer it, and more than just a check. I remember..."

He stiffened and pulled away a little, and Phil let him. Clint's past was a minefield, one that had to be navigated very carefully during their infrequent trips there.

"I want coffee. You want coffee?" Clint asked suddenly.

"Coffee sounds great," Phil said, standing and following him into the kitchen, knowing that Clint needed to be doing something while they talked through this part.

"A lot of that time blends together," Clint said without any preamble, his back to Phil as he stood at the coffeemaker.

Phil leaned against the opposite wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he listened.

"It wasn't bad, no matter what Ba -- it wasn't bad," Clint said firmly. "It wasn't like they beat us or left us shivering in the snow if we were bad, nothing like that. There were just... too many kids, and not enough... anything, really. Attention, food, toys, books, warm clothes, everything. We just needed more everything."

He turned and leaned on the counter, his pose mirroring Phil's. His shoulders were hunched, and he wouldn't meet Phil's eyes, but the very fact that he was talking about his childhood at all, that he was willingly sharing any of this with Phil, made Phil want to throw his arms in the air and cheer.

"Christmas always sucked. We each got a single cheaply made, discount store toy, and they were all kinda the same, and... and the older kids broke theirs pretty much right away and then took away the ones the younger kids got and broke those too. I'm not saying they didn't try to make it nice for us, but..." He trailed off and shrugged.

"So, I was thinking about all that the second year. And I thought, maybe if all the kids had whatever they wanted, no one's Christmas would suck when their present got stolen and smashed to hell."

He shrugged again and turned back to the counter, busying himself unnecessarily with rearranging the mugs and the sugar bowl.

"So I wrote and I asked them to tell me what they thought each of the kids would want. I thought they'd send a list. They sent me those instead," he finished with a vague hand gesture toward the living room and the box full of letters.

He bowed his head. "Christ, Phil -- they all... how stupid was I? I knew -- I _know_ \-- exactly what they want, what they all want. They don't want toys or books or video games. They don't want to _be_ there. They want -- "

He broke off and shook his head, his hands gripping the counter so tightly that his knuckles were white. Phil crossed the kitchen quickly, making plenty of noise, stopping when he was directly behind Clint, the heat of Clint's body a solid line against his chest. He carefully slid his arms around Clint, pulling him close and resting his chin on Clint's shoulder.

"They want a home and a family," he said quietly, and Clint nodded.

Phil closed his eyes, imagining a very young Clint, defensive and wary and with no one but his older brother, no more than a child himself, spending cheerless Christmas after cheerless Christmas in a place where there was never enough of anything, where no one cared, no one loved, wishing for so much more, and he had to concentrate to keep from tightening his embrace to the point where it knocked the breath out of Clint.

Clint eased out of his arms, and Phil let him go once more. The younger man busied himself pouring the coffee and preparing it for both of them, and then he handed Phil a mug and turned to lean on the counter again.

"So, they all asked for things I can't ever give them, but they all asked for presents too. And those... " He shrugged and took a careless sip of his coffee, wincing a little as he obviously burned his tongue. "Those I sent."

Phil reached out a hand, and Clint didn't take it, but he did flick an apologetic glance at Phil as he led the way back to the living room. He sat beside Phil when they sat down again, rather than on the other side of the couch, and Phil tried to be satisfied with that.

"Who knows," Clint said as he took another sip, "Maybe they have better supervision and that never happened there anyway, or maybe the little kids still lose out to the bigger ones."

"It seems to me, just from what you've told me, that the Olsens take a more... active role in their guardianship than those at St. Ignatius did."

Clint didn't quite flinch at the direct mention of St. Ignatius, but his eyes tightened a little more, his jaw muscle twitching, and he nodded stiffly as he reached for another of the envelopes on the coffee table.

"Maybe. Anyway, they sent me thank you notes again."

Phil leafed through them, skimming briefly. The gifts had obviously been more personal this time, and while some of the notes were brief, some of them went on for several sentences, gushing about the perfect gift the author had received. None of them mentioned the family that hadn't appeared on Christmas Day, and Phil wondered if all the kids were resigned and unsurprised, or if the Olsens had simply held those letters back.

"Last year was the same," Clint told him as Phil returned the notes and Clint carefully re-tucked them into the envelope and put it back on the table. "Except they sent me thank you videos along with the notes.”

He pulled the computer out of the bag at his feet and onto his lap, lifting the lid as he slotted in a flash drive. After a few seconds, he found the right folder and clicked on a video.

Several dozen kids of various ages popped onto the screen in what was clearly a rec room. All of them were clutching toys or books or DVDs or sporting goods of one kind or another. The little ones were beaming brightly, though the older ones appeared sullen and wary -- but, Phil thought, perhaps no more than any teenager being coerced into something like this.

"Thank you, Santa," they chorused, and then it descended into chaos, some of the kids giggling and shoving playfully at each other, some of them shouting out their own message, and Phil's lips twitched into an unconscious smile.

"The older kids don't write letters, but I tried to send stuff I thought they'd like -- video games and movies, books for kids their age, shit like that. There are individual messages too.”

He clicked on another file. A gap-toothed girl of around seven or eight grinned nervously at the camera, a baseball cap turned backwards on her head. “Hi, Santa, it's me, Jen! Thank you for the basketball – it's a great present. Now I don't have to wait for the boys to let me play!”

“I don't think you have to worry about the boys taking her ball away,” Phil told Clint. “I'm pretty sure she'd just kick them and take it back.”

Clint shrugged uneasily. “I don't know how it works with girls,” he admitted. “There were only boys where I was. Oh, this one's my favorite," he added, grinning as he opened another file.

The boy was maybe two, if that, with dark shaggy hair and enormous brown eyes that stared curiously at the camera. One hand was curled possessively around a new teddy bear sporting a purple ribbon around its neck, and the thumb of the other hand was stuck firmly in his mouth.

No matter how much the woman behind the camera cajoled, the boy did nothing but stare and suck, occasionally blinking, long dark lashes sweeping his cheeks as he did.

The video went on for about a minute and a half, and at the very end, he popped his thumb out of his mouth and waved shyly at the camera, a bashful grin revealing a couple of teeth.

Phil chuckled, and Clint grinned again, but it faded quickly. "He's still there," he said roughly. "He's three now. Wrote me his own letter this year." He sorted quickly through this year's letters until he found one that was little more than a scribble in green crayon, showing it briefly to Phil before tossing it back on the stack. "I always hope, when I get the letters, that it's a whole new group of kids, that I won't see the same damn names and the same damn wish, but..."

Clint shook his head irritably as he set the laptop back on the table and sat back beside Phil. He leaned in slightly, and Phil took it as an invitation to curl an arm around his shoulders. "Anyway, I started thinking about it this year, and..."

He reached up to scratch at his chin. "I realized, y'know, that I was thinking way too narrow... Christmas is only one day, and I just... presents are nice, but there's so much more I can do, I just don't know where to start, and..." He trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

Phil cupped the back of Clint's neck, rubbing gently. "I'm sure that if you asked Tony -- or Pepper, Pepper would be bet -- "

"No," Clint snapped out, cutting him off, and then he shook his head and sighed. "No -- look, I shouldn't have snapped at you, but... I know they'd help, and I know Tony cares much more about his charities than he wants people to think he does, but... this is _mine_ , Phil."

Phil knew that finding the letter in the couch had been an accident, but his heart dropped into his stomach even so, and he lowered his gaze to his lap as he nodded.

"Phil?"

He lifted his eyes to Clint's, finding the other man frowning as he studied Phil's face.

"I'm sorry," Phil said softly. "It wasn't my intent to force a confession of something you wanted to keep private."

"What? No!" Clint's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "God, no, I didn't mean _you!_ " He laughed, a nervous little sound, as his hand found Phil's, and he glanced down as he tangled their fingers together. "What's mine is yours, right? Isn't that what this whole together thing is about?"

The relief was so huge it overpowered his surprise at Clint's easy mention of their relationship. "Only if you want it to be.”

"Of course I do! I was trying to decide what to tell you, how to tell you, I just... I mean, I know it's not a big deal compared to what Tony does, or even what Steve does, but I mmph -- "

Phil's lips on his instantly quieted his self-deprecating ramble.

Phil kept the kiss soft and sweet and reassuring, and Clint leaned into it and sighed, a sound full of relief and acceptance. Phil wrapped a hand around the back of Clint's neck and scratched gently through the short hairs at his nape, doing everything he could to show Clint how amazing he was, since he knew Clint would only get embarrassed and withdraw if Phil tried to tell him outright.

He pulled back, breathless, to find Clint gazing at him, his eyes bright and happy.

"Now," Phil said evenly. "How can I help?"

"You really want to?"

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Do I do things I don't want to do?"

Clint's lip curled briefly in a smirk. "You spend your days arguing with Fury and wrangling the Avengers, so, yeah, sometimes you do."

"That's work. This isn't, and I'm here because I want to be," Phil replied as he pulled Clint's computer off the coffee table and into his lap, opening a new file so that he could make notes.

"Talk to me, Barton," he said, and Clint grinned despite himself. "What is it that you want to do for these kids?"

Clint studied him intently, his face so close to Phil's that it took Phil's breath away. He was gorgeous, no matter what he thought of himself -- the slight scattering of freckles across his cheeks and forehead, the full lower lip he bit at when he was nervous, and those incredible eyes that changed color with his mood or the weather or the clothes he was wearing.

The skepticism in them wasn't an indication of a lack of trust in him, Phil knew, but a lack of belief in his own worth, that anyone else could possibly find meaning in what he found important.

Phil saw that wary look less now than he had during their first days and weeks together, but it still broke his heart every time. He carefully stilled his hands on the keyboard to keep them from clenching into fists with the desire to hurt everyone who'd ever put that look in those eyes and simply gazed back, doing his best to show Clint what he could never put into words.

After a moment, Clint relaxed, leaning into Phil and pressing a quick kiss to his temple. Then he bounced up and sat down on the edge of the coffee table so he could easily look at Phil and talk with his hands, ignoring Phil's frown of disapproval as he eagerly launched into his plans.

"Well, I know they have a playground, and I know it's up to code, but it is one boring-ass playground, and it could really be so much better. And I've seen pictures of the grounds; there's some old trees, they're _huge_ , and I was thinking a cool treehouse, but all that can wait until summer, or maybe late spring. I don't know if they have any kind of library, and I want to make sure the pipes are sound, and they have a couple of vehicles, but I was thinking another van, maybe, and..."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

After nearly two hours of brainstorming, Clint's voice was growing scratchy, and Phil's file of notes was sporting a double digit page count. He blinked at the blurring screen, stifling a yawn.

Clint saw it, of course, and then glanced at the clock. "Jesus, Phil, why the hell didn't you tell me to stop babbling? You got up at the ass crack of dawn this morning, and -- "

"We don't have much time if you want to get some of these plans implemented before Christmas. I can make some calls tomorrow -- "

"You don't have time, Phil," Clint said firmly. "You don't even have enough time to do all the things you _need_ to do, let alone any of this..."

Phil thought of his schedule for the rest of the week, yawning again as exhaustion threatened to overcome him just at the reminder. "I really don't," he conceded sadly as he saved the file and emailed it to himself and to Clint.

Clint took the laptop from him and set it on the coffee table before moving back to the couch once more and curling against Phil's side. "I'll make the calls. What you've done tonight, helping me organize my thoughts and start some research, it's... I never... I should've come to you -- "

Phil quieted him once more with a kiss. It really was the quickest way to shut him up, and it was too bad it was unworkable during business hours.

"You make the calls," Phil agreed, resting his forehead against Clint's. Unless the Avengers were needed, Clint's schedule was more open -- other than standard training and routine exercise and range practice to keep his skills up, he was mostly helping with repairs and reconstruction until SHIELD's newest recruits were far enough along in the training process that Clint could help with them. "And we'll talk about this more when we're home tomorrow night? I want to help you -- help them -- however I can."

He blinked, gasping in surprise as Clint surged forward and took his mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue stealing in to taste and lap at Phil's. Phil's hands slid up along Clint's back and shoulders to hold him close as Clint's fingers pushed under Phil's sweater to stroke roughly along Phil's abs and play teasingly in the sparse hair on Phil's chest.

Clint pulled back just as suddenly as he'd surged in, his eyes shining with emotion and dark with desire.

"I should have known," he said breathlessly. "I should have just come to you, I should've known that you'd want to help, that you'd know exactly _how_ to help. God, Phil, I love you. So much."

Phil knew it, of course he did, he knew it deep, to his bones. He saw it in the way Clint looked at him, touched him, in the little things Clint did to make his life easier -- even if Hawkeye was still a pain in Agent Coulson's professional ass way more often than Phil would like -- but the words were rare, so very rare, and they hit him like a live wire every time, arcing wildly within him.

He leaned in and kissed Clint quick and hard, nipping roughly at his bottom lip as he pulled away.

“I love you too,” he said solemnly, shivering as Clint's tongue flicked out to lick at his now swollen lip. “And I think it's time for bed.”

He stood quickly, one hand reaching for Clint's as the other closed the lid of the laptop with a quiet click.

Clint grinned even as he took Phil's hand. "Tired, boss?" he asked innocently as they moved toward the bedroom.

"Something like that..."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The following morning, Phil waited until they'd finished breakfast and the table was cleared before he ducked into his office and retrieved what he wanted to give to Clint.

"Here. I wasn't sure who you wanted it made out to."

"What's this?" Clint asked as Phil handed him the check he'd filled out while Clint was in the shower. The addressee line was blank, but it was signed, and he'd entered the amount. Clint's eyes widened comically when he saw it, and Phil bit back his grin. "What -- but -- Jesus, Phil!"

Phil shrugged. "The only real hobby I've ever had is somewhat creepy now, with Steve living just upstairs, and I can't think of a better use for the funds." When Clint only stared at him in disbelief, Phil smiled and trailed a finger along Clint's forearm. "What's mine is yours, right?"

It seemed, Phil thought hazily as he suddenly found his arms full of gratefully enthusiastic archer, that philanthropy certainly had its rewards.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The following weeks passed quickly and busily, meetings and teleconferences filling Phil's days as SHIELD slowly, slowly righted itself in the wake of Loki's attack.

Clint arranged and participated in phone meetings and teleconferences of his own, speaking with contractors and vendors and employment agencies, gathering information and quotes and bids.

They spent the evenings together when they weren't with the team, going over all of the options and the potential costs and benefits of various plans of action.

After a few minutes of staring in blank shock at the balance lines on the bank statements Clint handed him, Phil immediately arranged for meetings with several different financial advisors. It was important to make sure, he told Clint, that his funds were being managed and allocated in the way that worked best for him and his needs and wants, not just for this project, but for his future. Clint looked skeptical, but he agreed to go along with it.

"A financial advisor," Clint laughed, shaking his head at the paperwork spread out before him on the dining room table. "Me, with a financial advisor."

Phil dropped a kiss on the top of his head as he handed Clint a cup of coffee before settling into the chair to his right. "It's something I probably should have suggested for you years ago," he said apologetically, and Clint shrugged.

"It's not like HR didn't suggest it once or twice," he replied. "But I just... I never... it was just me. And now..."

_And now it's not._

The words remained unspoken, but Phil heard them anyway, and the idea of the two of them as a single, solid unit settled deeply within him once more, bringing him a sense of utter rightness. His lips quirked up in a little grin.

“Hey, I have an idea. How 'bout I retire and lounge around here in our lavish suite and watch television while you go out and fight supervillains?”

Clint arched an eyebrow at him. “You would be gnawing your limbs off out of boredom within twenty minutes of becoming someone's kept man, Phil Coulson, and you know it. I'll be generous and give you two hours before you'd've snuck your way back onto an op and stole someone's radio.”

Phil rolled his eyes, but he couldn't argue. He loved his job, every single bit of it, even when it was as tedious and boring as it currently was, because he could see the significance of every form and file and email he read, and the potential in every ridiculously overblown department meeting he attended. SHIELD had always been important, but now... now they were building something crucial, something global, something _beyond_ global. How could he not want to be a part of that?

Clint grinned ruefully, rubbing at the sore muscles of his lower back. “How 'bout I give up all this avenging and be _your_ kept man instead?”

 _I'd agree in a heartbeat, if it'd keep you safe_ , Phil thought fleetingly, but he knew Clint was just as miserable when he was on downtime as Phil was, and there was nobody else in the world that could do the job Clint Barton did. “By the time I stole some baby agent's radio, you'd already be on the other end bitching in my ear, Barton, wondering what took me so long.”

Clint laughed. "Damn straight," he confirmed with a grin before turning his attention back to the overwhelming array of investment options spread out before him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Toy stores were not a part of Phil's normal routine, and he made it a point to stay as far from all retail establishments as he could during the entire month of December. His carefully researched gifts for his nieces and his nephews were always bought online and shipped directly to his siblings' homes, and Nick's customary bottle of scotch was always purchased well before Christmas and stored in Phil's office until they had a chance sometime around the holiday to break it open and spend a couple of hours telling each other the same stories and lies as always and getting quietly shitfaced.

Thus, he could not quite fathom how he found himself standing with Clint amid the absolute chaos of FAO Schwarz early in the first week of December. Carols blared over the loudspeaker, parents scolded and yelled, and children shrieked and darted back and forth in the aisles.

Phil stared in horror at Clint, who had the temerity to laugh.

"Swear to God, boss, I've never seen you look so shell shocked, and I've seen you after some major shit hit some major fans."

A woman nearby threw them a dirty look and hauled her whining offspring away by the arm.

"Remind me why we are here again?" Phil bit out, the tension gathering behind his eyes a harbinger that a whopper of a headache was coming -- the kind normally only caused by having to deal with the Avengers en masse.

Clint's grin only widened. "The joy in the eyes of deserving and needy children on Christmas morning?" he shot back, and Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He'd done his best to convince Clint that they could buy everything online and have it shipped to the kids, but Clint had insisted that he needed to see the toys and the games and the other gifts, to hold them in his hands and look and browse and compare, and that it was what he'd done the last two years, when he'd done all this by himself. And then he'd gazed at Phil, eyes wide, his voice soft as he'd said that he'd really appreciate it if Phil could come with him if he could find the time, but of course he'd understand if Phil couldn't, and Phil -- well aware that he was being played like a damn violin the whole time -- had found himself agreeing anyway.

He glared at Clint for a moment longer before turning to face the map of the store. Pulling out his phone, he called up the list of the kids and their fondest desires. He shifted automatically into op mode, ignoring Clint's fond smile as he mentally drew up a plan of attack that would get them out of there as soon as possible.

"That way," he said, pointing with his phone, and Clint lifted his hand from the handle of the shopping cart to give him a salute.

"Yes, sir."

Phil gave him his blandest stare, the one that promised a week of nights on the couch, but Clint only grinned again, his fingers trailing teasingly along the small of Phil's back as he passed.

They filled up several carts in quick succession, leaving them at the Customer Service desk. The teenager stationed there lost more and more of her perpetually bored expression with each return trip until she looked, much to Phil's well-hidden amusement, like a startled raccoon, thanks to her overdone eye makeup.

Phil noticed the looks they were getting from other customers as they discussed and deliberated over various toys, and he knew from the microscopic changes in Clint's expression that he was aware of the attention too. No one seemed to have recognized him as Hawkeye yet -- that kind of attention was still rare when he was in civvies -- but two men shopping together for what was clearly a ridiculous amount of toys was sure to garner some notice, even in New York -- they were in the middle of a tourist mecca, after all.

Some of the looks they got were fond or approving, and some of them were openly appreciative -- Phil was well aware that they made a handsome couple, though of course most of the ogling was aimed at Clint in his battered leather jacket and tight jeans. A few people glared at them with hostility in their eyes, and he and Clint were both careful to keep track of those individuals as they progressed through the store.

"Phil," Clint breathed suddenly, clamping a hand on his arm, and Phil stiffened in alarm, searching instantly for a potential threat. "Oh my God, Phil, _look!_ "

He pointed at an endcap where -- among ridiculously oversized and vividly green Hulk gloves and gleaming plastic Captain America shields -- brightly colored packaging showcased a Nerf version of Hawkeye's bow.

Clint's smile was blinding as he dragged Phil closer to examine it more thoroughly.

"I know you saw the marketing material," Phil told him. "I clearly remember the gleeful noises that came out of you then."

Clint scowled briefly at him, but his irritation couldn't hold in the face of his joy. "Yeah, yeah, but staring at pictures in a marketing brochure is nothing like seeing it on the shelf, Jesus, that's so _awesome!_ "

His grin vanished, and he gazed intently at Phil. "I want one."

Phil huffed out a startled laugh and stared at him in disbelief. "You have the _real_ one," he reminded Clint, keeping his voice low. "In the damn car."

Clint waved off his words. "Totally not the same thing, Phil. I _need_ it."

Even as he rolled his eyes and forcibly turned Clint away from it, shoving him toward the next aisle, Phil _knew_ he was going to end up buying the damn thing for Clint and putting it under their little tree, no matter how much it was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

They continued shopping for a few minutes more, and then Clint turned a corner and stopped short again. Phil stifled a curse, only avoiding smacking Clint's ankles with the front of the cart through a quick and tricky evasive maneuver.

"What the hell, Clint?" he hissed, but his annoyance fled as he caught the dumbstruck expression on Clint's face.

They'd reached the rest of the Avengers toys, tucked in among the action figures of fierce and brave looking soldiers and sailors and cops, surrounded by model fighter jets and helicopters, and toy fire engines and police cars with 'real flashing lights' and 'realistic siren sounds'.

It was worth every tinny carol, every disapproving look, all the crowds, the noise, the mess, and every single shrieking brat, just for the look on Clint's face as he caught sight of his own action figure under a sign that proclaimed, in brightly colored letters a foot high, **REAL LIFE HEROES**.

Clint turned to him, eyes wide, mouth half-open, and Phil knew that instant of soft vulnerability would stay with him always.

But it was for _him_ to see, and no one else, and he knew Clint would be horrified if he realized how open he was leaving himself in public, so he just aimed a brief but fond smile at the younger man and nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

"Come on, big damn hero," he murmured. "Let's finish shopping and get the hell out of here before my hearing is damaged beyond repair."

Shaking himself out of his daze, Clint grinned at him and began humming along with the loudspeaker's version of _It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas_ \-- purposefully off-key, Phil knew, because he was well aware that Clint could carry a tune a hell of a lot better than that.

They pushed on, focusing once more on the mission's objective. Phil was determined not to forget anything, because he damn well wasn't coming back.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Phil woke gradually, a rare occurrence for a weekend morning, let alone a weekday, and then he remembered exactly what day it was.

Christmas morning. One he thought he'd never see. He was alive and healthy, and Clint was alive and healthy and _here_ , deeply asleep in Phil's arms, and all of that was more of a Christmas miracle than he could possibly have done anything to deserve.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered, pressing his nose to the back of Clint's neck and breathing in the warm, clean scent of him. He shifted the arm that curled over Clint's chest until he could feel the strong and steady beat of Clint's heart under his hand, and he smiled as he thought of the ridiculous toy bow sitting under the tree, anticipating the boyish grin it would get.

He thought of the other gifts he'd found for Clint, the way he'd taken the time to really shop rather than just choosing something quick and easy -- the leather-bound set of classic science-fiction Phil had seen him eying, the sunglasses to replace the favorite pair Thor had accidentally broken, the matched set of knives for both throwing and cooking he'd had specially commissioned, and the other little things he had picked up here and there. It had been... fun, Phil realized, searching for gifts and contemplating what Clint's reaction to each one might be.

He smiled as he remembered the other packages under the tree, the ones that had appeared while he was at work or in the shower, and he wondered, with a sense of almost completely foreign impatience, what they might hold.

It was the first time in probably decades, he realized, since his adolescence, really, that he was truly looking forward to the ritual of exchanging gifts, to the pleasure of giving and the joy of receiving. Just one more thing he hadn't realized was missing in his life until he'd almost lost everything, he thought, and he had to blink away the sudden moisture in his eyes.

"I really wish sometimes that I knew what I did to end up here," he muttered, bewildered by the surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

A raspy chuckle came from the man in his arms. "Must be clean living, boss," he said, and Phil could hear the grin in his voice.

"Didn't mean to wake you."

"Do you always start your morning by asking what the hell you did wrong to deserve me?"

"How I got so damn lucky, you mean? Yes. Every morning," Phil said seriously, and Clint went still for a moment before rapidly turning in his arms. He narrowly avoided Phil's crotch with his knee, and Phil gave a startled yelp, arching his hips away from the other man, but Clint simply pushed him to his back and climbed atop him, the blankets tangled hopelessly between them.

Clint slid his hands into Phil's hair and held him steady to kiss him senseless. Phil hummed into the kiss, reveling in the feel of Clint's warm, pliant body against his own.

"Mornin'," Clint said with a happy grin as he pulled away. He shifted, but not far, lying on his belly with his head on Phil's shoulder, one arm thrown across Phil's chest. His stubble rasped roughly against Phil's skin, and Phil twitched, just a little. Clint laughed and nuzzled him again.

"Good morning. Do you think they're opening them yet?" Phil asked, thinking of the truck stuffed full of packages wrapped in shiny paper they'd sent off the week before. He stared at the ceiling in the dim morning light, running a hand through Clint's tousled, sleep-creased hair before stroking his fingers lightly down Clint's bare spine.

Clint arched his back into the touch, and Phil wouldn't have been all that surprised to hear him purr like a contented house cat.

"Maybe," he said, and there was a smile in his voice again. "Pretty sure it's still too early there, though. But I think they'll be happy. We did a good job."

Phil snorted. " _You_ did it all, babe. I just watched."

Clint lifted himself on his elbow to stare down at Phil. "That's bullshit! Without you, it would have just been another batch of -- "

"Toys, bikes, movies, board games, skateboards, safety equipment, stuffed animals, balls, books, video games," Phil listed, arching an eyebrow. "And at least two of every Avengers toy you could find. You want me to go on?"

"Things, just little things," Clint argued back as he settled once more against Phil's side. "Without you, that's all it would've been. Because you helped me, their new van should have been delivered yesterday, the plumber and electrician are coming next week, a nutritionist starts on a weekly basis in January, they've got three new interns coming in now to help with the babies and the littlest kids -- I couldn't have done any of that or any of the rest of it without you!"

"You thought of it all, Clint. I just typed it out for you."

Clint was quiet, tense in his arms, and Phil nudged his chin up with a fingertip to look into his eyes. They were stormy gray, his face set in unhappy lines, and Phil frowned.

"Clint?" he asked in concern.

"You always downplay what you do," he said angrily. "I know," he continued before Phil could speak, "It's habit because of the work you do, you're used to moving the pieces from behind the scenes, but -- this is important, Phil, it's important, and we did it together, and you did so much more than just type things out for me."

A rush of relief and tenderness swept through Phil, and he smiled as he wrapped his arm around Clint and pulled him close. Of course Clint was angry on Phil's behalf, not his own. That was the way it was between them, always had been, even before they'd finally found their way to each other.

He lifted Clint's chin again and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips, which were a thin, tight line in his annoyance.

"I know," Phil acknowledged. "I know it's important, but Clint, you're the one who said that this is yours. I may have helped, but that's still true. This is yours, and what you've done, from the beginning, really, but definitely this year -- it's amazing."

Clint tore his gaze away, but Phil could see, by the flush that came to the tips of his ears but nowhere else, that he was embarrassed.

"It _was_ mine," he mumbled. "But it's _ours_ now, if you -- I mean, next year, if..."

"I can't wait to see what we can do next year," Phil reassured him, and the way Clint smiled at him, the idea of starting Christmas traditions together, of building a _life_ together, it was all so intoxicating, and it reminded Phil once more of what a miracle this day was.

"You were asleep before, when I said it," Phil remembered. "Merry Christmas, Clint."

Clint blinked, and there was an odd look of confusion in his eyes. "Merry Christmas," he said absently, and then he laughed, sounding dazed.

"Clint?"

"You know, it's kinda funny... for the first time in my whole entire life, I think it might actually be a merry Christmas. Isn't that weird?"

And after hearing that, there was really no way at all that Phil could keep himself from pulling Clint into his arms to start showing him just how very merry a Christmas it was going to be.

**END**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide prompt #66: Clint secretly plays Santa to an orphanage. Phil and/or the Avengers find out.


End file.
